Backlash I
by MCG
Summary: Someones death affects Lindsey badly. He has revenge in mind. Only will his plans backfire on him. And who is the 'man in the shadows' Drusilla's newest childe see's?
1. Game Start (1/2)

Title: Backlash I: Game start (1/2)

Author: MCG

Summary: The death of someone has profound effects on Lindsey. With revenge now in mind, will his schemes go as planned or will they backfire? Lindsey and Angel angst. 

Note: A big thank you going out to Aurorarose; my beta reader (Who could practically be called the co-author with the amount of work she had correcting my first version). Without whom, the fic wouldn't be grammatically correct or plausible. You should have seen my wording before the corrections she made; it sucked-truly it did. Aurorarose, thank you for your help; I owe you big time.

Chapter 1: Game start part 1

Los Angeles

Wednesday 18th April, 12:48 AM.

Wolfram and Hart headquarters office building

Lindsey slammed his fist down onto the desk with such force that the wood split. Usually, this would have concerned him-he was not the strongest of men, and to break the furniture in this manor could mean shoddy workmanship-but the thought never crossed his mind. 

A pain shot through his fist and up his arm from the force of the blow. Anyone else would have flinched or shouted out in pain, but Lindsey was past caring anymore, almost ignoring the physical pain that had assaulted his body. A large piece of wood protruded from the wound, smaller splinters of wood surrounding it. The only acknowledgment of the fact that blood was split was a sharp intake of air as he extracted the larger of the problems, leaving the smaller fragments still embedded in his wrist. Next to the mental anguish of the past three hours, it seemed like nothing. 

Now all he wanted was revenge. 

He wanted to return to Angel what the vampire had given him, only he knew Angel was probably going through the same torture as he was, if not more. After all it had been Angel that had dealt the blow-not unprovoked obviously-but he had still been the one to bring about the end of this particular battle, a battle that had been very significant, perhaps even going as far to say a turning point in the war with Wolfram and Hart. 

Now, with the battle finally over, Lindsey was left with a feeling of emptiness-an emptiness that he knew had been coming for a long time; an emptiness that had been building each and every time the voice in his head told him to stop but he didn't; each and every time he let go of one of his morals in favour of his own agenda. And now it was complete, he had no more morals to let go of. He had nothing else for which to stop.

He slumped forward in his seat so his body was now lying down, his chest pressed against the desk. 

The moonlight that glittered through the window of his office was now void of any emotions they once might have inspired. 

As Lindsey sat in silence, the same state he had been for the past three hours, he did something uncharacteristic to him: he cried. Granted, it was only one stray tear, which he let glide down his face, without wiping away this obvious display of emotion. 

Emotion he pondered. Perhaps he hadn't lost it all yet after all. If he could still cry, still hurt as he was at that moment, then perhaps there was... had been hope. 

Before tonight, that is. 

Before the call he had received at exactly 9:45, there remained neither a time nor call he would ever be able to forget even if he wanted to, and he did want to. 

Now, he knew there was only one way to go. He had no other choices now. The only route he had left would end it, one way or another. 

As the tear ran a course down his face to end its journey on his lips, he traced its tracks, the irony that this tear, which before might have signified the beginning of his course in life, but now signified the beginning of the end of his course was not lost on him. As the lone drop fell to the desk onto a sheet of paper, he once again returned to the fit of rage he had been in when he first found out. 

Lashing out, throwing the pile of papers to the floor, he stood up so fast the chair was flung in the opposite direction, hitting the window with a thud before coming to rest. Individual sheets of the thrown paper floated chaotically through the air each on its own course which would eventually end in only one outcome, as would his. The sheets finally ended up strewn across the floor, brining disorder to the usually pristine room. 

Lindsey set about making the preparations to bring this game to an end, picking up the phone he speed dialed a number and waited for a tone. "Hello, Jen, sorry to wake you." He paused, waiting for his secretary to respond even if the response would be groggy. "Would you please cancel my tomorrows two o'clock and arrange a meeting a Mr. G. Allister. His details should be on file. Thank you, Jen... 

"Oh and Jen, would you be so kind as to arrange for some flowers to be sent to Angel... Actually, scratch that, send just the stalks, a dozen thorny stalks." Lindsey paused as Jen asked him a question, taking a minute to think about it, he smiled, answering in simplicity, "Soon." He would never know the irony this would hold in the long run, and if he did, he still wouldn't have cared; nothing mattered any more. 

As he placed the phone back on the catch, he began picking up the scattered around the floor. After all, it would not do for the senior partners to see the recent circumstances having affected him in any adverse ways.

At least not yet.

Over the next few days, he would finish it.

Two more days at the most.

Just two.

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Angel Investigations

9:30 PM

"What do you think he's doing?" Cordelia asked anxiously of Wesley while he paced back and forth, as he had been doing on and off since sundown.

The two had been waiting in a state of worry since Angel had taken off in a questionable state earlier that evening, just after sun down. He had seemed, if Cordelia thought it was even possible, in an even worse state then he had been at the start of it all. The look in his eyes was dark, perhaps with glints of insanity not far off. When Cordelia had looked into them after the phone call, they had scared her; not since Angel had become Angelus had she been so frightened of the look he held.

Whatever news the phone call held, it couldn't have been good.

"I don't know," Wesley lied in answer to her question. 

They both knew where he was going. He was going to do what they had suggested from day one, a path the two of them now knew he couldn't have taken then. 

They both knew whom these circumstances involved. 

They had both seen the look in his eyes. 

They both knew it would be over that night. 

They both wanted to deny it. 

When Angel accomplished his task nothing would be the same again. He would be different; only by changing could he have ever accomplished this-a change for the worse.

"You don't think he's..." Cordelia trailed off, knowing full well that Angel had. Wesley couldn't answer, nor could he meet her eyes, not wanting to spoil her self induced state of denial. "Shouldn't we be... I dunno... doing something?" she continued, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. "Helping him... anything?"

"There's nothing we can do yet. All we can do is be here for him when he's let us be."

"Huh?" 

Wesley smiled, not sure if Cordelia had zoned out and hadn't heard him, or, as he preferred to think, had simply not understood the way he had worded the sentence... as usual. "Just be there for him to lean on... emotionally. He's going to need friends, if he's ever going to... you know... get through this."

"I can do that... I can be supportive," Cordelia replied. "I was supportive of Xander when he was having that... problem with Anya... I didn't even make one joke ... oops."

"Problem?" Wesley asked now slightly more interested. He didn't really know Xander that well, and his personal problems, whatever they were, didn't really concern him. They would, however, concern Angel... at least after a period of grieving, when Angel had gotten back to usual. There was never any love lost between those two.

"It has nothing to do with you. What he told me involved just him, little-Xander, and Anya's sex drive only."

Wesley was about to interrogate her further, but Cordelia's face told him it was off bounds. The beautiful young lady spun round in Angel's chair, glancing at her watch as it had stopped, earning an irritated sound from Wesley. Cordelia realised that what she was doing must have annoyed him, especially after she had done it for the millionth time. So she'd done it again.

"Would you stop spinning round on that chair... You're making me dizzy."

"I think it's your pacing that's making you dizzy."

Wesley realised for the first time that he had been pacing relentlessly, taking a good ten years off the lifetime of Angel's carpet and no doubt irritating Cordelia as much as she had been irritating him "Touché." Then he sat down in order to stop his pacing and began to fidget with his watch instead. "Where do you think he is right now?" he questioned.

"Probably walking into a trap as we speak," was Cordelia's perfectly blunt, yet perhaps truthful answer.

**********

**********

Angel had been wandering the streets for some time now, in a daze of both confusion and sadness. A depression settled in during the events of the past few months. He had been wandering aimlessly for some time now. 

Looking down, the blood was still on his clothes, now drying onto the coat. Angel felt another wave of guilt pass over him, and he would have thrown away the coat, getting as far away from it as possible, if it wasn't for the fact that it was the only thing he had left, along with the memories. His hand covered up the major bloodstain to stop his traitorous eyes from staring. Angel thought a situation like this would be a lot happier-it had been in his dreams; it had been a joyous occasion with everyone there to celebrate. Only it wasn't in reality, for there was nothing to celebrate. 

He wasn't even aware of the time, how long had he been walking? He didn't know. 

What he did know was that when he had started, the properties had been top of the range, fetching ridiculous prices of one to maybe two million dollars for a one bedroom apartment. They were the cream of the city, the inhabitants living in their bottom down world carefree from the true nature of the city. Now, however, he walked past run-down factories and apartment buildings with boarded up windows. Across the street, a group of homeless people crowded round a fire, their dirty, drab and torn clothes offering little protection from the cold of a winter night. Angel could smell them from where he was. Dirty and unwashed as they were, it was a smell that was all too familiar to him. He had once been one of them-outcasts, living rough on the streets with no one else in the world.

As he crossed the road, the homeless men off in the background, a car broke to a halt, stopped just short of hitting him head on. Then horn blared as the driver impatiently swerved around Angel before he'd even had a chance to move, the car speeding off not wanting to stay in this place any more then Angel did. The only difference between the driver and Angel was that the driver had a way out. He would soon be leaving the run down side of LA in favour of a whole new world in the better parts of town. Only a few blocks, yet a world apart. Angel, on the other hand, had no way out.

Angel checked his watch; it was late. Very late. Dialing a number into his cell phone, he waited as he waved down a passing taxi. This had been his only bit of luck over the past few months: a taxi had been out at this time of the night and in these parts. 

Luck. 

He began to laugh, lightly at first, that any luck would come his way, and then a wave of anger came over him, his laughter becoming slightly maniacal. The taxicab now pulled up to the curb as Angel continued laughing. 

Luck he thought again.

Luck indeed!

Angel half expected to scare the driver off. After all, to find someone laughing crazily in this area-a Hellmouth of crime, a place that drew the scum of the city, murderers, rapists and the evil of humanity-would be enough to scare most people. The taxi driver, though, appeared unfazed, not giving so much as a look at Angel.

"Where to?" the man queried in an almost programmed mechanical tone: no sense of cheer or hope in his voice. His eyes lacked any sign of life, the bags under them apparent and pronounced and his clothes appearing wrinkled and disheveled. His demeanor was of someone with a severe case of insomnia. This man was yet another soul trapped in the pitfalls of this god-forsaken city. There was no way he would be working at this time of night especially and in this area otherwise.

"Angel Investigations, North street."

Without replying the man nodded, waiting for Angel to close the door before pulling off from the side of the road and driving a few meters away before turning the car fully 180o toward North St.

Angel pressed the send button, sitting back in the chair as the taxi made good progress along the empty roadways, the only sign of life the lights on in the houses. As the phone dialed, Angel gazed out the window in an almost hypnotic state, watching for nothing in particular, only the world passing by in a blur.

**********

Wesley woke to the phone ringing, and it took him a few minutes to get his bearings. Wiping the sleep from his eyes and ignoring the aching neck he had received courtesy of sleeping in a chair, he glanced over at the counter where the source of the annoyance seemed to be coming. Next to the phone, Cordelia stirred, her body slumped against the counter in what seemed to be an as uncomfortable position as Wesley's.

He then realised that they had both fallen asleep whilst waiting for Angel and dove for the phone.

"Angel?"

**********

"Wesley," Angel replied. 

"Angel... is it... over?" Wesley asked, trying to tread lightly round the subject.

Angel nodded, and though he knew Wesley wouldn't see, it was more for himself. Only now was it finally getting through: what had happened. He felt he had to nod to convince himself. "It's over," he replied in an desolate tone.

Wesley could hear the sadness in Angel's voice, his pain, and he could only imagine what Angel was going through. "Are you..."

Angel didn't let him finish, responding with an abrupt, "I'm fine."

There was an awkward silence before Wesley got the courage to delve more into the circumstances, hoping Angel wouldn't clam up. "Drusilla... Is she?"

"Drusilla's alive. I let her go."

Wesley took a breath of air in surprise. Angel had let Dru go. How could he let her go after everything? She was partly responsible for this. "You let Drusilla go?"

"Killing her wouldn't have served any purpose," Angel argued.

"HOW ABOUT…" Wesley responded, raising his voice in a moral outrage, before seeing Cordelia stir as his voice rose; she was still sleeping. Lowering to a whisper, he finished, "How about good old fashioned justice? I know how you must be feeling right now, but I think you..."

"Should have killed Drusilla and risked having Spike hell bent on revenge and out for blood?" Angel answered a little angry, his rage, however, was swamped out by the other emotions that were overwhelming his body.

"What about Lindsey? Won't he take this as hard as Spike would have for Dru?"

"Lindsey won't be a problem; he's just a puppet."

"Angel," Wesley began, "when you're ready to talk, we're all here for you."

**********

Angel ended the call, content to know that he would always have friends like he did. Even though he was hurting, he knew there was light at the end of the tunnel. All he had to do was make it through this desolate tunnel, so that when he was ready, there would be people to help him through this mess, people to help him move on and adjust. 

As he placed the cell phone back in his pocket, the taxi came to an abrupt halt, almost like a stop required for an emergency break in a driving exam. The screeching of tires filled the air, and Angel hit the screen separating the driver from the passenger compartment with force. His inertia, coupled with the fact that he was wearing no seatbelt, resulted with his face scrunched up against the glass, almost knocking him unconscious. There was an almost unknown sensation that hit him: pain. 

Angel was not new to the concept of emotional pain, nor was he knew to the concept of physical pain, but the pain caused by something so trivial as hitting a bit of reinforced glass was terrifying to Angel, at the least. It emphasised his newly found weakness, his now inability to ignore what he had been able to before. And for everything he had lost in accomplishing his dream, he had to ask whether it was worth it. And at the moment Angel knew the answer. It was a definite NO.

For this he had lost one love.

For this he had lost another.

For this he had come so close to hurting those that loved him.

No. No it was not worth it; it would never be worth what he had lost.

But he had to make the most of it. All he could do now was wait for the next one to come and help in any way he could and rebuild the bridges he had torn down with his friends. In time.

All in time.

The person that had been crossing the road when the taxi struck was sent flying back, no time to scream at the pain; the impact killed her instantly.

Bang. Dead.

Instantaneous.

The dent in the front of the taxi bared witness to the force with which it had hit the woman. The driver himself was unconscious or dead, his face bloodied, bruised and pressed against the steering wheel, the sound of the horn echoing through the air.

As he got to his feet, blood trickling from his broken nose, he tried to open the door, panic overtaking him as he realised it wouldn't open. Angel's attempts to escape the confines of the taxi, to get to the woman and the driver were useless. His arm pulled back, and he threw it forward with as much strength as he could muster, swinging his hips into the blow as well as he could in the confines of the back seat. The glass gave way with a smash, the shards of glass scattering out on the road, completing the destruction of the scene. Small gashes in his knuckles, again a new source of pain for such menial physical acts. 

Pulling himself out the window space, Angel fell to the ground. As he got up and made his way to the fallen woman, the sound of the horn still filling the air, he walked with a slight limp, the extents of his injuries even more so then he had thought.

As he approached her body, the sickly smell of blood almost got to him. He felt his chest contract and his stomach turn, growing tight. He felt waves of contraction travel from his stomach up, even though he had eaten nothing. He coughed, which brought up bile onto the road, and he kneeled down as the urge to vomit up his stomach contents intensified. Eventually his state subsided, so there were no longer there any tears in his eyes. The nauseous feeling of sickness still threatened to engulf his body whenever another waft of blood floated past his nostrils, but now he could keep it down. 

Treading over the combination of stomach acids, bile salts and blood cells, he leaned over the woman to feel her pulse, already knowing the answer but not ready for it.

A fresh feeling of queasiness overtook him when he felt nothing inside her-no pulse-the darker side of his mind disgusted at his body's reaction to the death, but he couldn't help it; his body couldn't help it. Even though it wasn't a demon or vampire or any other such evil that had killed her, the other side of his mind, the side that was learning of this world, was amazed at how easily she had fallen.

At how easily he could fall.

As he turned round, he was hit from behind. The woman towering above him had a face darker then before. Ridges traveled down from her forehead and her eyes burned a yellow golden colour of a vampire.

Angel saw for the first time the fear these things inspired, hovering above him like a devil in human form, knowing he was pretty much the underdog and would most probably die. It filled him with nervousness like he had only felt at times of great evil, and then only when it concerned loved ones, gripping tightly at the stake he had like it was a lifeline-mainly because it was. He waited for the demon to attack. As she picked him up by the neck with such speed that he didn't stand a chance of dodging or counter attacking. Gasping and choking while bringing one hand up to his neck to try and stop from being suffocated, Angel thrust the stake to her heart, his hand stopping dead as the vampire used her free hand to catch his fist. 

The demon threw him back, and Angel landed in the dent of the taxi, breathing heavily, and bringing his hands up to his soon to be bruised neck.

While he struggled to regain footing, the vampire said, "My mother told me you were bad now. She said you should be punished. She said she will punish you." She then glanced down at the stake she now held and growled at it. "Bad, bad tree. Mother doesn't like trees." The vampire took two steps towards Angel before she seemed to be sidetracked by her thoughts.

"When I bring you to mother Drusilla, she will be very happy. She will give me one of her dollies. She told me every good little girl deserves a dolly. I'm a good girl. She told me I was like her once upon a time. Once upon a time it was a fairy tale, when your father Angelus, and grand-grand-mother Darla and her Spike were a happy family long, long ago."

The women, a young brunette was dressed with a corset and a dress, almost like an old fashioned doll, with what Dru would have described as a "pretty little bow hat" to finish the look. She had a chilling aura to her that was rivaled only by the evil dolls of horror movies. Dru had made her, no doubt, to be a living doll, inspiring terror that would make Chucky seem like a Barbie doll. Dolls themselves could only provide so much companionship, and Dru had obviously craved a doll companion, so she had made this fledgling in her own image, including the insanity. Angel knew he couldn't fight this vampire, not in his current condition. 

What a strange use of words… Condition. Said as if it were a bad thing, not what he'd been craving for a long time.

"I told Dru to get out of town," Angel said as if he actually believed she would go. "She'll be gone soon; she'll leave you alone," he continued, hoping to confuse and sidetrack her. Anything that would preserve his lifeline.

"Mother wouldn't do that. I'm a good girl. I'm going to get a dolly," the vampire replied. "Mother would never leave me. She didn't leave me. She just went away for a while. She wouldn't leave me. NEVER!" Suddenly, in a twist of temper, the volatile spirit of this new vampire showing, in a fit of rage she ripped the hat off, tearing it in half, before ripping her clothes.

"I'm not a dolly, mommy!" she screamed. "I'm not like you! Not!" The vampire began to throw her self about in a fit, foam forming at her mouth as she continued to throw what could only be described as a darker version of a 'temper tantrum,' stamping her feet in anger. "I'm not a vampire. NOT, NOT, NOOOOOTTTT!" Her fit ended, and she stood perfectly still, Angel's eyes focusing first on the stake which dropped during her tantrum then back at the insane vampire. Her face was hidden by shadow but was focused on the ground at something only she could see. She was whispering something, but Angel couldn't hear what; it was only loud enough to hear and recognise as whispering, seemingly emanating from all around, and the sound turned his stomach. 

Another of his body's reactions: fear. His mind, the part that knew of the evils, told him he shouldn't be scared even though this would have inspired fear in even his former self. But his body wouldn't listen, and he was physically shaking despite the fact it was eighty degrees outside. 

Then a cruel smile slowly formed on the vampire's face as she looked up, her eyes darker than Angel had remembered seeing. "The shadows say the bad feelings will go away if I kill you. The soul agrees."

Then, without warning, she charged at Angel, diving on top of him with her vampire game face on. She screamed in pain and jumped back clutching at the cross-shaped burn on her chest.

Angel used the diversion to dive forward to where she had thrown his stake, holding the cross out to keep space between them.

The vampire stepped forward warily, not wanting to get to close to the stake. "He burns me," she stated sadly. "Mother said he doesn't like me; I didn't want to believe. Why would he not like a good girl like me?" She seemed saddened by this fact, but then changed her mind. "Then I don't like him either."

She swung her hand, hitting the cross from Angel's hand so it fell into a gutter at the side of the road. She giggled. Angel used this chance to thrust the stake at her, but was knocked onto his back as she backhanded him. He landed with a grunt and before he could get up he was held down by this vampire as she gripped his throat. Then she leaned down and prepared to feed. Angel closed his eyes as he waited for death to come, sweat beads forming on his forehead as he held his breath.

Angel stayed in that position for what seemed like forever, then when he got the courage, he opened his eyes, still holding his breath. His lungs felt like they were going to explode.

Nothing.

Angel got up slowly and wearily, picking both the stake and the cross up, and dusting himself down, somewhat more humbled by his first meeting with a vampire in his current state, though he didn't feel it during the fight. Well, fight was the wrong word; it was more of a slaughter. 

He was defiantly feeling the pain now, as the adrenaline in his system wore off. Angel could feel himself aching all over, and he was covered in numerous cuts and bruises, though worst of all were his ribs. Injured during the crash, they felt as if they had crumbled to ash, pain flooding his body like a Trojan horse of warriors intent on causing as much misery in his body every time he took a breath. 

Now, Angel had a lot more respect for everyone he had met in the past that fought these beings of darkness as normal humans. Willow, Giles and Xander. Angel was only now finally realising what true heroism was: those three who had stood by Buffy no matter what, no matter how much pain or danger involved, without any super natural powers. They had battled on the Hellmouth for years, Giles with just his Watchers training, Willow with mostly her intelligence but, of late, magic powers, and Xander with simply his loyalty and his desire to protect his friends. And Angel admitted to himself Xander's feelings for Buffy didn't exactly go against why he fought. He had begrudgingly conceded that he had a hell of a lot more respect for Xander now, perhaps even more so than the other two, that he was in a similar situation. 

He may have become a zeppo; the only thing he had going for him now was his knowledge of the underworld and evil. Angel would have to take a leaf out of Xander's book. Xander's and Willow's and Giles' books. He would have to fight smart from now on. And he would. If they could do it, then he would learn, too.

Dolly watched from behind the nearby dumpster, partially hidden by the cover of shadow of both the night and the cover from human light by the alleyway. Sighing contently, she whispered, "Thank you, beautiful shadows. Thank you." She squealed in delight as Angel ran off into the dark, a walking pace at first, wandering in shock before realising the severity of the situation, then he picked up his pace. "It's going to be so much fun when mother and father Spike come home to make Angel father Angelus again; it'll be a fairy tale. We'll be a family." 

The vampire seemed to be talking to someone, focused on something to her side. She nodded, before turning slightly angrier. Her features screwed up and her throat issued a growl as her gaze focused on something high above the buildings. "That bad man in the shadows better not try and take him."

**********

**********

Coming up in Backlash I: Game start part 2

Lindsey's plans begin to unravel. But will they go according to plan?


	2. Game Start (2/2)

Title: Backlash I: Game Start (2/2)

Author: MCG

Summary: Lindsey's plans finally begin to fit together, as Wolfram and Hart begin to find out that they can't mess with everyone.

Once again, thanks to my beta reader Aurorarose (a.k.a. Empress of Cooltown); who works some sort of secret magic grammar/spelling/punctuation/content-correcting-spell on the fic before it goes out for public viewing thus saving me from flames from the grammar-savvy people.

Thursday 19th April, 6:30 AM.

Wolfram and Heart headquarters

4th floor.

Lindsey had arrived extra early—-a good 15-20 minutes before the first rays of sunlight were even present on the horizon. The city had still been black as ink when he left, driving through the maze he called a "short cut", streetlights lining his journey and shining onto the freeways and roads guiding his journey, only to highlight the emptiness and the darkness of the course. Some, as would be expected in LA, were broken, the electricity cut or the light bulbs smashed, leaving him in ebony surroundings with only the light from the surrounding buildings and his headlights to keep the darkness from collapsing inwards. One light in particular had bared witness to some of the cities most violent crimes, several pairs of shoes with their shoelaces tied together dangling from the lamppost.

A sign of respect for those that had fallen in the gang land killings.

He was making record time, for very few cars lined the road this early in the morning. The Wolfram and Hart building was different, too. Just like roads, it was almost completely empty. The normally bustling building was nigh on empty. 

Two junior lawyers, fresh out of college, congregated downstairs by the coffee machine, a cup of strong coffee wanted, but not required to see them through the day—their own self esteem would drive them through the day. They were still young, striving to be the best lawyers they could. I bet they're still vowing to play it straight Lindsey thought to himself. 

But these men and women were the elite, those that had excelled in their courses. They had the skills, the know how, the potential to be the greats, the ones that had caught Wolfram and Harts eyes. And now they had been won over in this so-called employees-market. Attracted by the lure of money and fame in the courtroom, to be part of the region's biggest law firm, Wolfram and Hart. They would be wined and dined by the company as the people at the top, those in power, slowly tightened their grip on the young lawyers, until, before they knew it, they were puppets, no longer able to escape the downward moral spiral that would leave them empty. Soon enough, they would be running around, performing dark rituals to please the senior partners, in the years, whenever a review approached, in an attempt to prove just how loyal they were.

Very few, if any of those that came to Wolfram and Hart, would ever make it out to live their own lives; they would become stuck in the system.

To escape, you had to stand up to Wolfram and Hart.

It was suicide.

Lindsey had almost been the one to make it out. He had been at that point a year ago, when he saved those children. He stood up to Wolfram and Hart… and survived. He almost made it out, but in the end, Wolfram and Hart's claws had dug too deep.

He was loyal. That loyalty finished him. His loyalty got him nothing. Nothing but pain.

Lindsey made his way down the corridor, and unlike areas of the freeway, there were no lights here—none that were on yet, anyway. Turning them with no one around was a waste. All the main lights were on timers. 

The lift closed behind him with a 'ding', the music that played over and over again throughout the day silenced, stopped by the now closed doors. As Lindsey walked toward his destination, he noticed how his shoes made a squeaking sound on the bare tiled floor, the cleaners having polished the surface overnight, making the sound extra pronounced. The lack of people, of sounds of people, walking backwards and forwards, breaks to the coffee machine to give them the extra edge to win that case, to find that vital book, allowed his every movement to become almost noisily loud. The squeaks of his two hundred-dollar leather shoes echoed hollowly down the hall.

He couldn't believe he'd never noticed before. His shoes squeaked. He'd had them for months, and he'd never noticed before. Only now could he focus and be aware of such little things.

The emptiness of the world at this time was only partly to do with his new found awareness. 

Now, that's something he would never have noticed before.

That was his clarity; he was only now hearing everything. He saw the way with Angel.

Only now seeing everything.

And how he had seen it.

In all the time he had tried to find something, he had found nothing; it appeared Lilah was clean. But now he didn't care because he had stumbled upon a gem. He saw the way with Lilah.

The flashing of lights disturbed the eerie quiet, slivers of white reflecting off the wall at the end of the corridor and flickering on and off as the path of the ray came in and out of his line of sight. A security guard walked in from around the end corner, the flashlight focusing on nothing in particular, the focus changing as he walked. He whistled happily to himself as his shift approached an end. He would soon be home to see his loved ones—girlfriend maybe, perhaps even a wife or children. Something to live for.

This man wasn't wrapped up in the corruption that Wolfram and Hart inspired, promoted even. He got to walk home every morning to live his separate life, away from Wolfram and Hart.

This man had something. Someone to live for. Not like Lindsey. Lindsey was alone.

Sometimes Lindsey felt envious of these people. They didn't have to face the problems he did. They did their jobs and went home. They didn't have to clean up other people's messes. They had two lives: one at Wolfram and Hart, the other their own life, where they did what they wanted, lived their lives.

Lindsey had one life. It belonged to Wolfram and Hart.

Of course, these were the employees that were also expendable. Any mistake made on the part of the senior partners or management, and this man could be dead tomorrow or worse, waking up to find himself a murderer, indisputable evidence against him.

All courtesy of the senior partners.

These were the people that could be used to cover up dangerous mistakes. To hide the true nature of Wolfram and Hart from the outside world.

Lindsey was less envious of that side of the security guards life, and anyone else that could disappear without disrupting the flow of current events.

The security guard walked past, making his way to the lift, nodding his head and cheerily wishing Lindsey a good morning as he passed.

As Lindsey continued his journey, the lift music began to play again as the security guard entered. Once the doors closed, Lindsey was once again left in silence.

Turning the handle, he walked into his office, as the first light of the day sparkled through the window, lighting his desk. There, almost a centerpiece on the desk, was what he was hoping for.

It was here.

A folder filled with hundreds of document contained, it contained the financial information for Wolfram and Hart's—represented by Lilah—most recent client: Dante Caerelon.

He was important to Wolfram and Hart, but not because he represented some great power. He wasn't the bringer of an apocalypse or even evil like most of Wolfram and Harts other major clientele. Well, not the same sort of evil. No. He was the evil of humans. So what did he matter to Wolfram and Hart?

His organisation was set to earn close to $12.5 billion over the next 10 years, and Wolfram and Hart would get a fair share of that for their services rendered. Fairer then Mr. Caerelon would care for, Lindsey believed.

The senior partners were most impressed with Lilah. All the hard work she'd done to get him on board. All the hard work she'd done tempting him right out of Lindsey's hands. The senior partners were very, very pleased.

But not satisfied.

They were never satisfied.

Anything they got. They wanted more. Lindsey was sure this situation would be no different. Even if getting more would mean embezzling it from Mr. Caerelon and his associates, they would do it. 

Lindsey knew it wouldn't be easy to find her mistakes; she was smart. And Lilah wasn't just smart; she would do anything it took to make it to the top. She was ambitious, even more ambitious then he had been, and that made her dangerous. But he had one thing in his advantage. Lindsey knew her. He knew what made her tick: power.

With power came fear. Those in power had something to lose. And Lilah was scared; her heart may be black, but she feared. That night three months ago, when they were held by Dru and Darla, Lilah had feared for her life like all the others there.

They all had. All but him.

You don't fear that which you know. And Lindsey knew Darla.

Just like he knew Lilah.

Lindsey hoped his theory was true. That the senior partners were in on this, if they were part of the scam, then Lilah would have less of a reason to cover her tracks. With the power of Wolfram and Hart on her side, she may get sloppy.

Lindsey sat at his desk, getting comfortable. Switching on the desk lamp to light the papers, the rising sunlight not yet providing sufficient lighting, he began to read through the accounts.

Debating with himself on whether to get a coffee after all, he didn't know how long this would take, but he finally decided that he could wait. Just like those first year employees he had passed, Lindsey was now driven by merely his urge to find that for which he was searching.

After nearly an hour and a half of checking and double-checking, Lindsey could find nothing of use. He was growing impatient. Taking another sip of the coffee his secretary, who had arrived half an hour earlier, had brought him, he flicked through the next few pages in the folder. So far he'd read over one hundred pages of accounts and reports, but it was all clean, everything accounted for in full. Not a trace or sign of foul play, even though he knew there had to be something there.

It was all too typical of Wolfram and Hart: on the outside squeaky clean, abiding by the law that they so often manipulated, but there was inevitably a scam. There had to be. There was always a scam. He knew because he was involved in most of them.

Taking the last sip of his coffee, the once slightly bitter taste the drink had, fading fast as the drink cooled, he closed the folder. Perhaps he was thinking about this all wrong. He wasn't an accountant. But he knew someone that might be interested in these accounts. Someone that would have access to an accountant.

Someone with the means and the motive to be vigilant of the accounts.

Lindsey pressed the intercom button "Jen, could you get Mr. Caerelon's office on the phone please." Holding the phone to his ear he waited for his secretary to connect him, the silence of the time in between demonstrating just how anxious he was to finish this, or at least begin it.

After three rings, someone picked up. A man with a very pronounced accent answered, speaking in his native language. "Mr. Caerelon?" Lindsey asked, hoping to obtain an answer in English.

The man spoke in his thick accent. His English was basic, his delivery slow, clumsy and sometimes wrong. Stuttering almost. Lindsey got the gist of it though. There was no one there by that name. You must have the wrong number. Caerelon who?

"I represent the law firm of Wolfram and Hart." Pausing to let the name sink in, he continued, "I have some information Mr. Caerelon may be interested in." Lindsey pushed, hoping this would get the man in a talkative mood.

"Wolfram an Hart" The man repeated, mispronouncing the words, but now a lot more interested then he had been before.

"You might want to tell Mr. Caerelon to double check the accounts that a Mrs. Morgan has been keeping for his overseas operations."

"Accounts," the man repeated, knowing this word better then most others. He was finally understanding something of what Lindsey was implying. "Why, what is... how you say... problem with accounts?" the man asked.

"I think it's best Mr. Caerelon takes a look for himself. Just know the problems are the sole responsibility of the his personal lawyer and her recommended accountant. Wolfram and Hart were not involved with, nor had any prior knowledge of the on goings of this rogue lawyer. The senior partners had hoped this will not ruin any future relations between our two companies. We will be taking steps to discipline the two involved, unless of course, Mr. Caerelon and his associates wish to handle it personally."

The man thought for a second, the line going quiet. In the background Lindsey heard two people talking. What started of as whispering, as the first man told a newly arrived second of the situation, the talk then became an argument, shouts in their native tongue becoming louder until eventually someone won out.

A different man completely picked up the phone, his English much more fluent then the other mans, but his accent was just as pronounced. "I have a feeling Mr. Caerelon and his associates will want to handle this problem personally. That's if there even is a problem, mister…" 

Lindsey wasn't phased at this mans attempt to trick him, nor his attempts to intimidate him. "Just call me a concerned representative. And trust me, Mr. Caerelon will want someone to take a second look at those accounts. I'm sending our records to your secure account as we speak."

The man took a moment to think.

These people seemed to think too much. Almost as if they were afraid to make a decision. Any mistake could cost them their life. Lindsey guessed this wasn't too far from the truth. Those that done business with Wolfram and Hart tended not to have the most law abiding or morally aware representatives. Why should Mr. Caerelon be any different?

"Okay, I'm sure Mr. Caerelon will be grateful for both your and Wolfram and Hart's vigilance. I hope, for your sake, and for any future business relations between our operation and you're American law firm, you're telling the truth."

Lindsey could hear the disdain in the man's voice as he said American. It sounded like he was hoping that something would happen to jeopardise the deal. To undermine Wolfram and Hart just because of its status as a US law firm.

As the man was speaking, Lindsey took the time to open up the computer files on the accounts his secretary had also arranged for him. He waited for the laptop to dial up a connection and sent the accounts to Mr. Caerelon.

Lindsey put the phone down before the man had a chance to continue his lecture. He wasn't about to be threatened by someone who was obviously somewhere near the bottom of the whole operation. Lindsey didn't answer to anyone but himself.

Not anymore. This was it. By the end of the week, all scores would be settled.

Wolfram and Hart.

Lilah.

Angel.

***

The man heard the receiver go dead as the American hung up. Cursing in his own language, he swore, both at the phone, and the man that had been on the other end of the phone. Why did this have to happen? Everything was going smoothly up until now. That's why those in charge had hired an expensive law firm, so there were no mistakes.

But now he would have to tell Mr. Caerelon that there was a problem with the accounts. Either him or someone else. Whoever would do it wouldn't have a very nice day.

Walking over the far end of the expensively furbished room, he opened a file cabinet pressed against the wall. The man shook his head as he saw that the file cabinet had begun to scratch at the wallpaper, causing some of the paper to come away around the cabinet. Opening the top shelf, he scanned through the files, running down the alphanumerical arranged accounts. Nothing. 

Closing the top shelf, he cursed again before opening the next one down. Running his fingers through the accounts, he finally reached the end of 'O'. "Overseas operations."

There it was. 

Picking up the folder, he took it to his desk, tossing it to the side of the computer before sitting down. Once he opened up the records that were stored on the computer, he checked the account number contained within the folder, the nine-digit code. Keying it in, he proceeded to open up the files for that specific code. The cursor changed to a timer as the files loaded, taking almost twenty seconds to load the files. All 12 MB of them.

Employees.

Current incomes.

Predicted incomes.

Cash flows.

Forecastings.

Future plans for expansion. 

It was all there, and it would take time to check.

"Wake Mr. Caerelon's accountant up. Now!" he shouted at the other man. "Tell him I'm sending some files to check over. I want everything checked, and double-checked within the hour. I want the overseas accounts gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Incomings, outgoings, everything." The man kept on speaking even after the man had gone. "So by god, if there's something wrong with his accounts, someone is going to pay, and it's not going to be me.

"Incompetence. American incompetence!" he shouted again, this time to no one in particular since the room was now empty. Everyone hoped there was no problem, for no one relished telling Mr. Caerelon that there may be something wrong with his 'business' empire. "Why did he choose an American company?"

Picking up a cell phone that was on the desk, he dialed an all too familiar number and waited for an answer. "Mr. Freeman, I may have another assignment for you." He paused as the other man spoke. "The targets are in LA. You'll have the go ahead. Details within an hour."

******

******

"Mr. McDonald, are you still there?" Lindsey's secretary asked over the intercom.

"Just a minute," he answered putting the documents back into the separate folders they had been in. "Okay, Jen, what is it?" he finally answered.

"I've arranged the meeting with Mr. Allister you wanted. And there's a senior meeting in board room three at 11:30 regarding an update in the Angel situation." 

Lindsey suddenly found his attention focused on nothing but what Jen was now saying. "Do you know what sort of update?" 

"Sorry. Mr. Holland wouldn't say. I was just told to make sure you were there. Would you like me to ask Ms. Morgan's secretary?" Jen asked.

Lindsey paused. He liked to know what situations he would be getting into before they happened; it never hurt to be aware of what might happen or to have good background information. Of course, chances were Lilah didn't know much more than he did, and even if she did, it was unlikely she would tell him anything. "Yeah, see if Lilah knows anything on the subject. And could you sort out the details of the Hudson case?"

"I'll have them on your desk by noon," Jen assured him.

******

******

Board room 3.

11:30

Lindsey sat in the newly refurbished meeting room, the most recent in the current series of completed refurbishments of some of the older rooms in Wolfram and Hart headquarters. Having only been finished earlier that week, it had not yet been used.

Lindsey could smell the freshness of the room. A virgin place, free from the corruption that Wolfram and Hart brought. Not that the freedom would last for long.

Seated around the table were the senior members of the Wolfram and Hart, Lindsey, Lilah and various other members that were important in the senior partners' plans. And to his right, the man that had called the meeting, Holland. "I trust you are all up to date regarding the Darla situation? So I won't waste your time with that," Holland addressed everyone there.

"I didn't think there was a situation," Lindsey spoke almost disgustedly.

Lilah couldn't help smile as Lindsey began his downfall. He had gotten too close to Darla, long passing the point where you could separate your emotions from the situation. Now, he was emotionally evolved, and those emotions could easily be manipulated. Now that Darla was gone, Lilah could see him begin to slide downhill. And when he crossed that line, there would only be her.

"Mr. McDonald, do you have something you wish to share with the board?" Holland asked.

Lindsey new he shouldn't pursue this argument; it wasn't in his plans, but he couldn't help it, not when Angel was still walking around whilst Darla wasn't. Not when the people responsible for Angel were here in front of him. "I just don't see how having a potentially valuable ally killed serves any purpose in getting to Angel."

"The senior partners considered it to be very important," Holland began. "Darla showed herself to be less then co-operative with our plans. There was nothing else that could be done that wouldn't jeopardise the long-term goals of Wolfram and Hart. Now, is there anything further you would like to add Lindsey?" Holland never gave Lindsey a chance to respond. "Good.

"Now then, in front of you are surveillance pictures taken of Angel late last night. If you would all take a look at them." Holland waited for each of the members of the board to open the folders.

Lindsey opened his folder; it contained nothing but pictures. A dozen or so pictures of Angel walking through a deserted street. There was nothing out of place, except for the distance Angel seemed to show two passers almost as if he hadn't realised their presence. Quite significant for someone with the supernatural senses of a vampire. But other than that and the way his clothes were ripped in various places, nothing was out of place. Flicking through the pictures, one stood out, immediately catching his attention.

This one picture was pretty much like the rest; Angel still had a distance to him. His face was cut and bruised, and his clothes were a mess. But in the background, in a window of a closed shop, a slightly blurred outline of a man could be seen. Very vague in the dim light of night, with only a few streetlights for illumination, but none the less, it could be made out.

His reflection.

Angel had a reflection.

"I... don't understand," Lilah gasped having finally seen the reflection. "How can Angel have a reflection?"

"He's alive," Lindsey answered. "The texts he stole. This is his redemption." Lindsey finally pieced everything together. "That's why he had to kill Darla..." Now Wolfram and Hart have him turned, and we have Angelus.

Holland nodded, confirming Lindsey's suspicion. "Now that Angel's human again, we can go into the final phase of the plan. The senior partners wanted me to congratulate you all on jobs well done."

"So what do we do now?" Lilah asked. "How do we play it?"

"We do nothing," Holland informed the board. "At the moment, the senior partners want Angel left alone. Whilst the final stage is undergoing completion, we don't want any harm to come to our project, especially in his vulnerable condition."

"What if Angel comes here?" Lindsey questioned. It seemed likely he could in a moment of confusion. "What do we do then?"

"Nothing. We have security guards to remove unwelcome guests," Holland told them all, making sure to reaffirm that Angel should not, under any circumstances, be harmed. "Even if Angel were to approach you outside of the office, the senior partners are very adamant that you don't do anything to harm him or antagonise him. You are all expendable. He is not."

Holland put the pictures back in a folder and got to his feet. "Now then, ladies and gentlemen, if we are all clear on the situation, I'm sure you all have cases to be working on."

As the members began to disperse, Holland called out to Lindsey. "Lindsey, can I talk to you alone?"

Lilah smirked again, closing the door behind her as she left. Soon enough, she would be vice president of special projects, with her life guaranteed for another couple of months.

"You wanted to see me?" Lindsey questioned, still standing behind his chair from when he had gotten up to go.

"Please... Take a seat," Holland offered. "Now, Lindsey, the senior partners have taken notice of your great contribution to their plans over the past year. Despite mistakes and misunderstandings, they feel you have shown great potential, and dare I say loyalty. The senior partners have plans for you... We would all hate to see that potential go to waste under any circumstances."

The sly warning was there. As clear as day, that Lindsey shouldn't make too much of a big deal about Darla or else... 'Accidents do happen,' would best describe it.

"We know how attached to Darla you were, closer then we would have liked. We were worried then how this might affect you… We're worried about you now. We're also worried about any retribution you might seek on Angel... So we are telling you now, his time will come, and you will be there to see it, but right now Wolfram and Hart needs him. So I'm sure you see it our way," he said with a reptilian smile. "We would hate to have to dispense of your services, especially after everything you've done for us. Think about it." Holland got up, leaving Lindsey sitting alone in the room.

Alone summed up his life right now.

He was right about one thing, Lindsey thought to himself. Angel will get his time. Sooner then they think. And I will be there, just not on Wolfram and Harts terms.

******

******

Wednesday 19th April, 2:35 PM.

Setal Restaurant, LA.

Lindsey McDonald was almost 35 minutes late for his meeting, his emotions firmly hidden by his cool exterior. He had been pulled away by his superiors, acting on behalf of the senior partners who were 'worried' over his potential emotional effects after the situation. They had given him a talk on the importance of Angel in the coming apocalypse, patronisingly talking to him as if he were a child, rather then the calculated man he was. Calculated with sociopath tendencies as the company therapist once described him. 

After the meeting, he just hadn't been able to concentrate on anything, losing track of time. If it hadn't been for Jen, he might not have made the meeting.

To him, it was vital.

To the Angel, it was the end.

Lindsey made his way to the back of the expensive restaurant, passing a young rich couple who were most probably spending their daddy's 'hard-earned' money, just like one of Angels former employees, Cordelia, used to do, Lindsey recited offhandedly. It wasn't important, but Lindsey had made a point of finding out everything to do with Angel he could. No matter how small, how insignificant, he knew everything about him. On the right, some businessmen sat around closing their latest business deal as Lindsey hoped he would be doing soon. His last business deal ever.

Seated at the back of the restaurant, a man nursed a drink, several other glasses stood empty, and just a few stray vegetables sprawled across an otherwise empty plate. The man glanced up, his eyes meeting with Lindsey's. Lindsey walked past a waitress, taking a drink of water that was on the tray, completely ignoring her, "Hey that was for..." as her futile attempts of resistance faded into the background, drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. The man picked up a tissue, wiping any food that may be on his face.

"Lindsey," the man greeted as he got within speaking distance, "good to see you." He promptly stood up to shake his hands. An empty statement of trust. There was no way either of these two men could ever be trusted by anyone, even, at times, themselves. Despite being old friends, neither would think twice about killing the other if it was in their favour. They were the sort of people that would sell their own souls if it gave them an edge in their agendas. This is where Lindsey hoped he had the advantage. He'd as good as sold his soul to the devil one piece at a time during his history at Wolfram and Hart. But then again, he was sure so had his associate.

As they finished exchanging their empty gestures, they both sat down. The chairs were situated opposite each other. It was not just a mere coincidence; this is how the man wanted it, and this is how Lindsey wanted it. This was so they could both keep a close eye on each other, watch the other man's eyes when Lindsey brought his agenda up.

It was too easy to lie through speech, and body signals could be, to an extent, controlled, but it was hard to read the body language of people like Lindsey and the man that sat opposite him. But the eyes never lied. If someone was up to something you could tell by his or her eyes. Both men knew it was near impossible to lie to a man, or indeed woman, whilst starring into his or her eyes. It was also a mind game, something both men were used to, staring each other down. It was more fun like this.

Lindsey knew the man wouldn't like the target he had planned. Angel was very much a Wolfram and Hart 'protected' person. No demon would dare attack him, and no one that knew about Wolfram and Hart would lay a finger on him. Everyone but Mr. Allister, Lindsey hoped.

Mr. Allister was Lindsey's link to the world of organized crime, particularly a hired assassination. Whilst he wasn't quite on the level of some of the assassins Wolfram and Hart had at their disposal, Lindsey preferred to go private. That way no one at Wolfram and Hart asked questions. No matter what type of assassination was needed, whether it was political or personal, a demon or a human, there were no questions. George Allister could arrange it. 

Though he wasn't active in the game anymore, he did know his stuff, having been an assassin for over fifteen years prior. He had retired three years ago with a nice little nest egg. But that didn't completely mean he was out of the game for good. He now ran an assassin business, though he never got his hands dirty because he had people to get the job done.

And what's more, he had a grudge against Wolfram and Hart. One of his employees, a very close friend, had been used as a scapegoat in one of Wolfram and Harts projects. It had taken quite a while for Lindsey to get back on talking terms with George.

"George," Lindsey greeted. "Good to see you."

And so it began, just an every day business meeting.

An everyday business meeting with one of the two co-vice presidents of the Wolfram and Hart special projects section and a specialist in the profession of hired death.

Perhaps normality wasn't in attendance after all.

"So," Mr. Allister began, "I got a call last night from a Jen Willis. Of course, I almost left it at that, what with not knowing a Jen Willis... But then, it turns out she represents my good friend Lindsey McDonald. Care to explain?" Mr. Allister finished.

"I need you to take care of some business for me," Lindsey told him.

"Straight to business as usual," Mr. Allister said before taking a sip of his drink. "What kind of job is it? Someone causing you trouble? A demon?" 

"It's not a demon... at least not anymore," Lindsey muttered, knowing that George Allister wouldn't like it one bit. But having no one else to take care of the business in the time he wanted, he would have to convince him.

The middle-aged man that sat opposite Lindsey took a deep breath. Bringing his hands up, he scratched the side of his face, a habit he had whenever he was thinking. The man finally brought his hands together, elbows on the table, and he finally answered, "Now, Lindsey, you know I don't do humans. I haven't for a long time." He lied. Both knew it was a lie. "So if this is it, we have nothing further to discuss. Goodbye, Mr. McDonald."

Lindsey didn't move.

"Lindsey, I don't think you understand me. I can't help you. I really can't."

Lindsey could feel the situation drifting away. If he didn't at least get George interested, his plans might fall out of reach. "I could make it worth your while. Make it very worth your while," he promised.

George ran his hand through his hair nervously. "It's not just about the money, Lindsey," He started, once again scratching the left side of his face. "I take it the target would be Angel?"

"Yes... How did you know?" Lindsey asked.

"I keep my ears to the ground," George answered. "I hear things. Angel being human is one of them. I also hear that he's Wolfram and Hart protected. And they're not someone I want to deliberately provoke." 

"Not even after what they done to you?" Lindsey pushed.

"I don't pretend to like what they done Lindsey. If I could do anything about, it I would. I really would. But do you think there's anything I can do about it? If I were to lock horns with them, I would be finished faster then flies around horse shit. If I didn't wake up dead one day, I might as well have. They have things that could put me away for the rest of my life. I have family now. A wife, a kid to consider... Kerri's ten at the end of this month; she's doing great in school. I can't go to prison, and I sure as hell can't go around pissing off the powers of this city. Now, I'm sorry, Lindsey, but I really can't help you." 

George Allister got up to leave, but his hand was immediately restrained by a desperate Lindsey.

"What if I can assure you that Wolfram and Hart will be too busy to notice anything you do?"

"It would have to be a pretty big event to keep Wolfram and Hart blind to their biggest project. I'm listening," George said sitting back down. "But this better be good... I'm meeting my wife for lunch... five minutes ago."

"You aren't the only one with a grudge against Wolfram and Hart," Lindsey informed. "Do you know a Dante Caerelon?"

"I know of him. I know he *owns* half the people up in Washington... I know enough to never get in his way. That's what I know."

"Well, like you said. Wolfram and Hart are out of your league. Unlike you, they don't know not to mess with him." Lindsey told him enough to not jeopardise his plans. "So when I tell you that Wolfram and Hart are not going to notice anything you do, I mean it. So what do you say?" Lindsey finished.

George Allister ran his hands through his hair again before nodding, more nodding to himself than Lindsey as he finally decided. His nod became more pronounced, letting his companion know he might be able to do it. "It'll cost you…"

"That's not a problem," Lindsey assured.

"Then I might know someone. Give me a day or so to make some inquiries." George waved to a passing waiter. "Can I get the bill please?" Turning back to Lindsey, he nodded goodbye. "I think you can pick up the bill, Lindsey."

The two men shook hands. "George, a pleasure doing business with you, as always."

"I wish I could say the same," George replied, turning and walking off.

"Goodbye, Angel," Lindsey mumbled to himself. Throwing a roll of bills on the table, he got up to leave, walking towards the car park round the corner. 

Along the row of shops that lined the street, a homeless man sat in the entrance, his clothes dirty and worn with various broken bottles around him. In his eyes, you could see he had given up on life. Various passers by would see him laying there and cross the street to avoid coming into contact with him. The shop owners would try to move him, calling the police, threatening him with violence. Either way the man was better of dead. Both for him and for society. "Hey!" Lindsey shouted as he stood over the man. "How would you like to make twenty bucks?"

The bum looked up at the man in a suit above him. "Sure, what I have to do?"

Lindsey pulled out his keys and two ten-dollar bills. Putting a ten and his car key in the man's hand, he helped him up. "My car's in the parking lot around the corner, registration ******. Go bring it round for me. You'll get the other ten when you get back."

"Sure thing." The homeless man almost jumped up at the chance of making the twenty... or ten and a car. "Thanks, sir," he said walking towards the car park.

Lindsey never waited for him to even turn the corner before waving down a taxi. "Wolfram and Hart headquarters please." He told the driver, not once looking back.

Not once looking back even when a loud explosion echoed through the streets emanating from the car park. Not even when all the alarms began going off, as the windows of dozens of shops were smashed from the force of the blow. Nor when a fleet of police cars went shooting past, heading to where the bomb had exploded.

"So long, Lilah," Lindsey smiled to himself.

****

****

Coming in Backlash II: Raining Metal:

Angel adjusts to being human, someone's there to give him some motivation to go on.

Wolfram and Hart prepare to complete their plans.

Dru and Spike come to L.A.


End file.
